Darcy and the Devil: A Short Story

By Kathy

Part One

Posted on Saturday, 10 July 2004

London, April 1812

Fitzwilliam Darcy was in a bit of a quandary. He stood by the side of his bed, debating within himself. His mind ran through the possibilities again, but still he could come to no confident resolution. When he finally realized that the case was hopeless, that in this state of mind he would never be able to make a decision, he sighed in frustration and ran one hand through his hair, mussing the curls so carefully arranged this morning by his valet to appear as if they were mussed.

It was just too much, too difficult a choice. Should he or shouldn't he? He looked towards the bell pull, wondering if perhaps he should ring for his valet, but after making a short movement in that direction, he second-guessed himself and shook his head, returning to his place by the bed.

“Bah!” he finally cried in exasperation. “This is ridiculous! How could I, someone of such clear and certain judgment, be having so much trouble with such a petty thing as this! I swear, I would sell my soul if I could just figure out--“

A loud clap of thunder distracted him, and he looked toward the window, wondering if it were about to storm, but instead saw a large puff of smoke rising, seemingly, from the floor near the fireplace. His heart leapt into his throat, and he rushed towards the pitcher of water on the bed stand, ready to douse the flames before they burned the whole house down. But he was suddenly arrested by the sound of coughing, and his head whipped back towards the fireplace just as a voice said,

“Demme, but I should really find a new entrance. This whole smoke and thunder thing is doing a number on my lungs.”

A man, tall and thin, though solidly built, with jet black hair above a long, thin face and eyebrows that winged upwards, then went plunging down in a pair of upside-down vees, stepped forward out of the fading smoke, brushing dust off the sleeve of his immaculately tailored black coat. He then adjusted his waistcoat, a bright red number threaded through with shots of silver, and his cravat, a startlingly white stock that was exquisitely tied in the latest fashion. Only after he finished putting himself to rights did he look up at Darcy, who, through all of this, stood stock-still in the middle of the room, his jaw hanging slack.

“Well, hullo, old chap,” he said with a small smile. “Do you have a glass of something hereabouts? I fear my throat is absolutely parched.”

This little speech was so astonishing that Darcy continued to stare in wonder. After a moment, though, he managed to pull himself together and exclaim, “Who the devil are you, sir, and what are you doing in my rooms?”

The smile on the other gentleman's face grew wider and decidedly more wicked as he said, “But that's precisely it, my dear fellow. I am The Devil. And I came here, in a roundabout way, by your request.”

“My request?” asked an utterly stupefied Darcy. “And what do you mean, you're the devil? You don't look at all like the devil.”

The other man gave him a wounded look. “I assume you're referring to all of those silly paintings so many of your famous artists did of a red beast with horns, a forked tail and a pitchfork.” He sighed resignedly. “I must say, those do so much more to ruin my image than anything else.” Strolling over to a table on one side of the room where there stood a decanter of brandy and a glass, he picked up the crystal and held it up to the light. Finding it clean, he poured out a stiff drink, and then turned back to Darcy after taking a sip. “However, if you really don't wish to call me the Devil,” he said, “if your puny human mind can simply not accept that you are, indeed, in the presence of one of the most powerful beings on earth, I suppose you can call me Nick Eblis, Earl of Hell.” He flashed another debonair smile and sketched an extravagant bow. “I, of course, have other titles, but we'll content ourselves with that for the nonce.”

Darcy pursed his lips. “Well, Lord Hell, you still haven't explained what you're doing here.”

One winged eyebrow flew up in sardonic surprise. “I believe I did. I recall saying that it was you who asked me here.”

“And just when did I supposedly do such a thing?”

For the first time, the other gentleman appeared at a loss. “Did you not offer to sell your soul?”

“Well, I did say I'd sell my soul,” Darcy said, still slightly confused, “but I was being facetious! It's a turn of phrase. I don't actually want to sell my soul. I didn't even know you could do such a thing.”

The other man closed his eyes, as if in pain, and put several fingers to his temple. “And yet another mistake downstairs.” He opened his eyes and looked at Darcy, a crooked, self-deprecating smile playing across his lips. “You think you can get adequate staff these days. If they weren't already condemned to Hell...” But with a Gallic shrug of his shoulders, he tossed back the rest of his Brandy and then melted the glass into nothingness. “But since I'm here, I might as well find out the whole story. What were you going to sell your soul for, facetiously or not?” he asked in a sociable manner, sitting down casually in a wing-backed chair on one side of the room.

“I'm packing for a visit to my aunt's estate,” Darcy replied, going over to the bed and holding up a black evening coat, “and I just can't decide whether to put a set of evening clothes in my valise, or if I should just leave all that to be packed in my trunks. I was thinking of just putting them in the trunks, but then I remembered that last year the baggage cart fell behind because of a broken axel and didn't arrive until the following day, and so I had had no evening clothes. However, if I put my evening clothes in my valise, they'll probably be in no shape to be worn. Which do you think would upset my aunt more?”

There was silence in the room. The gentleman sitting in the chair by the hearth raised both eyebrows. “That was it? You must be joking.”

“Well, it is a difficult decision, you know,” Darcy said defensively.

“Not really. Pack the clothes in your valise, and just have a servant press your clothes when you arrive.”

Darcy stared at the other man for a moment, and then nodded slowly. “Yes, I suppose that would make sense. I probably ought to have thought of it myself.”

“I'm here to serve,” the dark gentleman said with a vague wave of his hand. “So now that we have that out of the way, is there anything else I can do for you? Something, perhaps, for which you might actually be interested in selling your soul? I really don't wish to make this such a needless trip; might as well see if we can get the most out of it.”

“I don't know if I'm really that interested in that sort of thing, Lord Hell,” Darcy said in reply.

“Call me Nick,” interposed the other. “Old Nick, if you wish.”

“Well then, Nick, there's nothing that I need at the moment. No problems, other than the one which you so summarily solved for me.”

Again, the winged brow soared high in plain disbelief. “You find your life...perfect, then? A second Eden, you might say?”

“I wouldn't say that,” demurred Darcy.

“Oh, then there is trouble in paradise?” chuckled the man in the chair. “Let me guess: a woman, perhaps?”

Darcy scowled. “Most assuredly not. I am not now, nor have been involved with any woman for some time. There are no complications in that area.”

“Ah, but not just a woman--a lady,” persisted the other man, steepling his fingers and putting them to his lips. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if in thought. Then suddenly, they flew open and pierced Darcy with an obsidian stare. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

There was a shocked silence in the room. “What--who--how did you know...?” Darcy stuttered. He put a hand to the bedpost and leaned against it slightly, as though suddenly fatigued. After a moment, he looked back up at the man in the chair. “Who are you?”

The dark gentleman spread his hands wide. “I am the Devil.”

Darcy shook his head. “No, no. That just isn't possible.” He straightened then, and began to pace, spearing one hand through his hair, tousling his locks even more. “Is this some sort of practical joke?” he asked finally, turning towards the other man. “Is this my cousin Fitzwilliam's doing?”

“The Colonel? Oh, no. That gentleman is as straight as an arrow. Surprising, when one considers what an effect he generally has on the fairer sex. A lesser man would most certainly have taken advantage of that before now. You know, perhaps I ought to pay him a visit,” he mused.

But catching a glimpse of the expression of doubt on Darcy's face, the man in the chair sighed resignedly and said, “I can see that you require some sort of proof that I am, indeed, the Devil. All right; ask me for something.”

“I beg pardon?”

“Ask me for something--anything. You won't have to sell your soul for it. I'm giving a demonstration. Ask.”

Darcy looked at the other man with suspicion, but said slowly, “A pair of peaches and three strawberries on a silver tray. And the tray has to have the monogram of the friend with whom I just spent the past autumn on an estate in...well, you figure it out.”

The two men stared at each other for a moment, and then finally a slow smile began to creep across the face of the man in the chair. He lifted one hand and deliberately pointed across the room at the dressing table, and Darcy's eyes followed the movement carefully, then traveled to the spot indicated. And there, on the dressing table, stood a silver tray with two perfectly ripe peaches and three red, luscious strawberries. He slowly approached it, reaching out his hand gingerly to touch it. Sure enough, they were real. And as he stood before the table, he read the three letters engraved on the mirrored surface of the tray: the initials of his friend, Charles Bingley, with whom he had spent the last autumn in Hertfordshire.

Darcy's eyes flew to the man on the other side of the room. “What do you want from me?”

“Ask not what I want from you, my friend,” said the Devil, “but rather what you want from me. I can give you Elizabeth Bennet.”

“I don't want Elizabeth Bennet,” Darcy said harshly. “Even if I did, I wouldn't need you to give her to me. All I would have to do is ask. She would never refuse me, Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley.”

Satan raised his eyebrows. “Really? That great of a catch, are you?”

“To someone such as she, with no connections and little wealth?” Darcy scoffed. “I am manna from heaven.”

“You are very confident in yourself,” Belial said. When Darcy nodded, he continued: “What say you to a friendly little wager?”

Darcy narrowed his eyes. “What sort of wager?”

“Quite a simple one, really,” replied the Prince of Demons. “We shall hinge this whole wager on a contingency; you make the decision whether you would like to go through with it or not. If--and remember, this is a simple if--you ask Miss Elizabeth Bennet to marry you, I wager that she will not accept your suit. If she does not accept your suit, I win. If you become engaged, you win.”

“What do I get if I win?” Darcy asked.

The Fallen Angel looked at him in amusement. “Is the hand of a beautiful and virtuous woman not enough for you, then?” He chuckled. “Very well, if you win, I shall leave you in peace, to reside in your little Eden, without clouding it with my presence or those of my minions.”

“And if you win?”

A slow smile of pure evil suffused the face of the Foul Fiend. “I get your soul for all eternity.”

Darcy thought for a moment, and then looked up at the Angel of the Bottomless Pit, who still sat in that wing-backed chair, his face in shadow. “Very well, I accept those terms. But it won't mean anything, you know. I have no intention of asking Miss Bennet to wed me.”

“Of course; of course,” said Old Cootie, rising from his chair. “Well, I shall return here in three month's time. You will be here, will you not?”

“I will,” Darcy replied. “And if not, I have no doubt you shall find me.”

The Prince of Darkness smiled. “Oh, yes. I shall, indeed, find you.”

Part Two

London, July 1812

This was definitely not good, Darcy thought to himself as he sat in his study, gazing down blindly at the account book before him. Not good at all.

It was already the third week of July, and still the visitor that had been expected at some time during that entire month had not come. Darcy felt as though the sword of Damocles had been positioned over his head, and it would only take but a misplaced breath to have it all come crashing down. His nerves were at the snapping point, at the very least.

It had been a poor decision on his part, really, to even have taken that wager. He should have just left well enough alone, and told the Devil to...well, go to Hell. But what he really berated himself for was the horrible way in which he had handled the whole situation--the vague courtship, the hesitant overtures, the disastrous proposal. She had been right. If he had behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner, none of this would have happened. Not the wager, not the proposal, not the loss of his...soul.

How did it feel to lose one's soul? he mused, probably for the hundredth time. Did one just walk around like an empty shell, feeling nothing? Or, because the soul was in the hands of the Devil, was it like a thousand torments?

Darcy buried his head in his hands, feeling again the oppression of guilt and regret. If this was even a fraction of what he would feel in Hell, he was in very great trouble, indeed.

And when the sound of thunder filled the room, he didn't even bother to look up. “Good afternoon, Old Nick,” he said morosely.

A deep, rumbling laughter filled the room. “If I hadn't already known the outcome, I would say that your expression alone tells me that I have won.”

Darcy looked up at him then, his eyes conveying all of his dislike towards that thing of evil. “Damn you to Hell.”

Lucifer, resplendent in a stylish coat of red over a waistcoat and inexpressibles of the darkest black, tsked at him, wagging a finger. “Now, that kind of language is not acceptable for a gentleman. Besides,” he said with a vague wave of his hand, “I already have been.”

“Have you come to gloat,” asked Darcy, spitting out the words, “or have you come to collect your winnings?”

“Collect my winnings?” echoed Old Bendy. “Why, my dear fellow, whatever are you talking about?”

Darcy stared at him. “My soul. Haven't you won my soul?”

“Well, yes,” Horny replied. “But I don't get that until you die, you know. It's something like an I.O.U. But in this case, you can't renege on your vowels.”

“Small reprieve,” Darcy said, pursing his lips.

The Prince of Pain nodded. “True, but think of how much fun you can have, now that you don't have a soul to worry about.”

“Some of us,” Darcy said tightly, “still have a sense of honor, whether we can call our souls our own or not.”

A sigh escaped Old Gooseberry, and he went to sit down in the chair opposite the desk. “You are such a stick-in-the-mud, Darcy. Why, if you were anyone else, we could right now be off on some lark, raising as much Hell as we possibly could.” He leaned forward to pick up a paperweight from the surface of the desk, and then settled back in the chair, tipping the object from side to side in the light. “But to tell you the truth, Darcy, I was quite honestly surprised when you went ahead and asked Miss Elizabeth to marry you. I thought for sure you would cry off our wager.”

When Darcy didn't respond, the Archfiend set the paperweight back on the desk and said, “But you did ask her, and she did refuse you. And as we had said in our wager, if she refuses you, I win.” He smiled wickedly.

Darcy nodded slowly, despondently. He had, indeed, lost. She had refused his suit and...wait a second...

“No!” cried Darcy suddenly. “No, you didn't win!” He looked up at the Devil before him, suddenly filled with a growing sense of hope. “Our wager was not whether she would refuse me, but whether she would accept my suit.”

Beelzebub looked at him askance. “The two are interchangeable.”

“No they aren't,” Darcy persisted. “She did not accept my suit this time, which means that you did win. However, she could still accept my suit--all I would have to do is ask her again. And in that case, I would win. All we have to do is become engaged, and my soul is mine again. You never set a time limit on the wager and you never set the number of times I could ask. Therefore, I have until my dying day to convince Elizabeth Bennet to marry me.”

If it were possible for the Devil to pale, he did so now. “No,” he breathed. “No, that isn't possible.”

“But it is,” said Darcy triumphantly. “I remember your words clearly: If she does not accept my suit, you said, you win. If we become engaged, I win.”

There was a moment of pregnant silence, and then the sound of an angry wind began to fill the room, and thunder roared, shaking the house.

“Very well,” snarled the Angel of Deepness, rage radiating from him in waves of shimmering orange flame. “Maybe so, but remember this--you haven't won yet. I will have your soul, Fitzwilliam Darcy. You shall not best the Devil!” And with a snap of his fingers, he burst into flame and disappeared, laughing.

Darcy felt a shiver go down his spine, and, not for the first time, wondered if he was, indeed, in way over his head.

But there was no time to ponder such misgivings. He had a young lady to woo.

Halfway to the door, he stopped, and with a groan, hung his head. He made his way back to his desk slowly, and sat down in his chair with a thump, resting his elbows on the desktop and his head in his hands.

This was an impossible task. There was no way in Hell or out that he would be able to win Elizabeth Bennet back. She hated him--had said it quite plainly, in unequivocal terms. Even if she had forgiven him for his role in his sister's disappointed hopes, had acquitted him of any wrongdoings with Wickham, she still had one more grudge to bear against him. How could he even hope to convince her to marry him when she thought him a proud, arrogant, ungentlemanly man? How could he change her opinion of his character?

Especially when he could not see her--he was set to travel to Pemberley in several days with his sister, Bingley, and Bingley's sisters and brother-in-law. And even if he could convince Bingley to travel into Hertfordshire (how could he explain such an about-face from his previous position), he could not do that for some time yet. There were countless other things to do first, not least of which were estate matters he had neglected for far too long.

He would need a miracle.

He sighed, knowing that he was probably the least worthy person for divine intervention, and ran both hands through his hair. Maybe it would be better if he left for Derbyshire today, ahead of the rest of the party. He was definitely in no mood at all to be in the same carriage with the others.

With a nod of resolution, Darcy went to find his sister and pack a valise to take with him. He was going to Pemberley.

Part Three

London, April 1813

“What's wrong, dearest?” asked Elizabeth, wrapping her arms around her husband's shoulders from behind, where he sat in the wing-backed chair by the hearth in his bedchamber. “You seem rather pensive.”

Darcy tipped back his head and looked up at his wife of four months. He smiled in assurance at her worried expression and said, “Nothing is wrong, Elizabeth. I am merely thinking about something that happened last year.”

“Really?” she asked, coming around the chair to sit on his lap. He reached out and wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close. “Would you like to share these reminiscences?”

He grinned suddenly, boyishly, and kissed her briefly on the lips. “You wouldn't believe me if I told you,” he said in reply.

“Try me,” she said.

“Very well.” And he recounted the scene in that same bedchamber, a year previous, to the day, when he was visited by the Devil. At the end of his tale, he looked over at Elizabeth to find her gazing at him with an expression of disbelief. He sighed. “I told you that you wouldn't believe me.”

She shook her head. “It's not that I don't believe you,” she said. “But are you sure that it wasn't some dream, perhaps? It just all sounds so fanciful to me.”

“Fanciful, perhaps, but nonetheless true.”

Elizabeth's and Darcy's heads whipped around in the direction of this new voice, and though Darcy was becoming used to it, Elizabeth nearly shrieked in fright. She bounded out of her husband's lap in order to pick her dressing gown off the bed and wrap herself in it, covering her rather thin nightrail.

“Hello, Old Nick,” said Darcy equitably.

“Good evening, Darcy,” replied the other with a smile. He then turned and bowed deeply to Elizabeth. “Good evening, Mrs. Darcy. It is very nice to meet you at last.”

“But where did you--how did you--who are you?” she stuttered. “Fitzwilliam, who is this?”

“This, my dear,” Darcy replied dryly, “is the Devil.”

Elizabeth stared in shock at the tall gentleman, dressed in sartorial splendor, as if he had just come from a ball. “Charmed, I'm sure,” she managed after a few moments of silence.

“I see that you have found a new entrance,” Darcy continued. “Not quite as loud, though. You might try to do something to announce your presence at least.”

“I know,” said Old Scratch, examining his perfectly manicured nails with some interest. “I've been working on perhaps some sort of evil laugh and perhaps a howl or two--the usual sort of `hellish' noises--but I just haven't come up with anything I like. At least I did away with the smoke, though.”

Elizabeth was looking between the two of them with wide eyes, still slightly shocked. “What is going on? Why are you here?” she asked, turning towards the Devil. “You haven't come to claim Fitzwilliam's soul, have you? He won your wager!”

“Oh no, my dear,” said the Cloven Hoof with a dismissive wave. “Nothing like that. He did, indeed, win our wager. Despite everything I threw in his way, too. I must admit I am quite impressed.”

“Thank you,” said Darcy. “It was, indeed, a challenge.”

Black Donald sketched a brief bow in his direction and said, “I must admit to making a small mistake with your aunt, you know. I was quite disappointed in what I thought was her potential.”

“She definitely helped more than she hindered,” Darcy admitted.

Elizabeth was still confused. She went to stand behind her husband, setting a hand on his shoulder. “If you are not here to claim his soul, then, Mr. Devil,” she said, “why are you here?”

“Oh, a triviality, really,” Ebru Labadon said. “I merely came to congratulate my opponent. Also, to tell him that he has absolutely nothing to fear from me. I will honor my promise.”

“You will leave us to our Eden, then?” Darcy asked softly, setting a hand over his wife's and squeezing it gently.

The Prince of Devils smiled in return and nodded. “You may have your Eden. You have definitely earned it.” And with another bow and a brief wink at Elizabeth, who tightened the sash on her dressing gown in response, he disappeared into thin air.

“And that's the last we'll see of him, I fancy,” Darcy said after a long silence.

Elizabeth nodded. “Thank Heavens. One encounter with him is more than enough for me.” She then came around the chair once again and sat down in her husband's lap, settling into the same position as before they were interrupted. Darcy stroked her back as they cuddled in silence, until Elizabeth tilted her head up to look at her husband's face and said, “So then all of that was true. You did, indeed, risk your soul for me.”

Darcy looked down at his wife and gave her a brief peck on the lips. “I did.”

“I'm glad you have it back, then,” she said, snuggling closer.

A slow smile crept across his face. “Have it back, my dear?” he asked, and she looked up at him in surprise. “I think you know by now that it's in different hands entirely.”

And he proceeded to show her whose.

The End

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